


Unpublished Love Letters

by Amarantramentum



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-04-18 23:47:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14224467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarantramentum/pseuds/Amarantramentum
Summary: He would be amongst the stars for oh-so-long, lost in wonder, and away from the boy with galaxies in his eyes and electricity in his fingertips. And so he took a pen and scribbled all the reverence in his heart.





	1. Keith

**Author's Note:**

> A very late cross post to Ao3.

The air crackles. Electricity on the skin like demanding fingers pulling me in, in, in.

Closer still. Warm, chapped lips like desert wind, gentle at times so they’re barely-there. The whisper of a kiss on a cheek or the back of a hand because for all his brashness, there always has been a certain  _nobility_  in how he holds himself.

How breath-taking.

But he, like the temperamental desert winds, holds strength within himself. He is a force of nature when he needs -  _wants_  - to be. Fast on his feet, he sweeps me off my feet when I least expect it.

Sometimes I do, and let myself fall anyway.

Knowing Keith is standing in the centre of a sandstorm and staying despite the whipping winds because you just trust him to know you. I like to think he trusts me too. Trusts me when he is no desert storm. Trusts me even when he feels silenced and small.

Thunder streaks across the sky and the sky sizzles in its aftermath. That, too, is as much a part of Keith as the sting of sand as the wind picks up or the cool, sudden relief of the rain which follows. He is the clear blue skies turning dark as his eyes. He is the pitter-patter on a steel roof and the dripping spot where an old ice-cream tub has sat as long as I can remember.

Keith is the way the cacti bloom in the wake of a storm. He is the sudden explosion of white-pink-red-yellow. The sudden explosion of  _life_. He is the stars on a clear night. Every single one of them. So bright they are unignorable.  _Unforgettable_.

Keith is the desert - its storms, its winds, its life - and he lets me hold him in my arms despite it. Lets me stand by his side and watch as, unwavering, he carves his way through the Garrison, every bit as unstoppable as a storm. Every bit as unstoppable as the first day I met him.

The air crackles and demanding, he pulls me in, in, in.


	2. What it is to be blessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study in the fluidity of definitions and concepts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A secret santa gift for the VLD secret santa event ^^

A lifetime ago, it felt as if I would never remember what it meant to feel _blessed._ It felt as foreign to the tongue as words of love or care; as foreign to the heart as the sensation of _calm_. Then, the most blessed I felt was when the Galra took me to fight in the arena instead of Matt. Back then, _blessed_ was to still be alive, to not hurt as much as other days, to have been fed half a meal and offered water that was not cloudy with blood or something... more mysterious.

In the years since, it has taken on a much more beautiful meaning.

These days, I awake to soft sheets and white curtains fluttering in the morning breeze like the skirt of a dancer swaying gently to a song I cannot hear. You lay beside me, warm and breathing and _alive_ , and I love to lean down and kiss reach of your knuckles before quietly slipping away to brew some coffee for the two of us. You never wake up, but sometimes I wonder if you are just pretending so I’ll kiss you some more – I’ve caught the corner of your lips lifting in the softest of smiles more than a few times.

I love seeing you when you wake. I wonder if you’ve ever noticed, but you always look especially adorable when you’ve just woken. I love the way your hair is mussed – always a different way each morning, yet always, I cannot help but want to ruffle it further. I love your bed-warm body against mine as you hug me from behind and reach for the coffee, grumbling about the morning light and how early I wake every day. I love how you curse about the too-bright light in the kitchen and burning your tongue on the coffee and what to make for dinner.

But for now, it is a weekend and we can just spend the day together. I kiss you softly on the cheek and you giggle about my morning breath and smelling of coffee. We could go anywhere we wanted together – the florist downstairs with the doughnuts you love for how they decorate them with flowers, the café across the street with those little cakes that always make you laugh, but instead, it has been a while since we spent the day together doing nothing at all, you tell me. And I agree. I offer to make breakfast while you brush your teeth but you tell me instead you’d rather the house not burn down.

I laugh at that and retreat to the bathroom.

For all the times you’ve laughed at how I cook, you aren’t so much better, yourself. That isn’t to say I don’t love it every time you cook for me – far from it – but that does nothing to stifle the smile on my face when I see the pile of crepes and cream and roughly cut fruit you have prepared for us. I kiss you softly and thank you for cooking for us and we spend the morning feeding bits of slightly-burnt crepes and too much cream and giggling as it ends up on cheeks and noses and fingers to be licked off with wide eyes and tongues that quiver with laughter.

Afternoon rolls past just as leisurely as morning had come for us before. The curtains dance on midday breeze and light dancing between shifting leaves. You’re in my arms, on my lap, and I listen to you reading poetry aloud. The words roll off your tongue, poetry brought alive by your voice and passion. The fire you were born from – all love and passionate and things that _matter_ – it surrounds you now and brings to life every little thing you do. Reading ink-printed words to life, kissing little bits of life and flame into my skin and heart and soul and stealing my breath with every little, idle touch of your fingertips along my arm.

You remark that even _I_ could not mess up a sandwich, and I laugh and reply you never know. Nonetheless, you entrust me with making lunch and curl up on the couch, browsing through our collection of films for one to pass the time. When I return some twenty minutes later, a plate of sandwich triangles and a jar of juice in hand, you’ve already started without me. It’s an old film, but one you’ve seen me watch countless times before.

I join you and you look up with a smile. I haven’t been gone long at all, but already, your arms are outstretched for me and you shuffle so there is space for me to lean back against you. I kiss your cheek first and whisper how I love you – I feel like I never say it often enough. It could leave my lips a trillion times over, and still it would not be enough. Let me whisper it to your ear and kiss it into your hair and skin. Let me say it so often you will never forget how much I love you because I don’t think I could ever live with there being even a single moment where you doubt it.

Your hand plays with my hair as we watch the film and the gentleness of your hand in my hair and the sound of your heart and gentle breathing lull me to sleep for a moment. The movie is over when I awake, and you look down at me with a soft grin that steals my heart all over again. I reach up for your hand and kiss every knuckle again. Every fingertip. The inside of your palm. It makes you chuckle quietly and my heart soars at the sound.

I suggest we treat ourselves to a more special kind of dinner – a reservation at someplace a little more upscale and you chuckle and tease at how I love to see you in a suit. I wish I could deny that didn’t play even the tiniest part in my decision, but – you always did love to see how I stutter when you’re dressed well. You hold my hand through dinner and we laugh throughout our conversation and we share dessert in the most cliché way possible, but it’s sweet and wonderful and perfect and I can’t stop grinning the whole drive home.

You laugh at me for that, but you couldn’t stop smiling either.

_Blessed_ is going to sleep with you beside me. Listening to your breathing slow and feeling your precious warmth so close to me. I lean down and kiss your hair and whisper how I love you so. You mumble quietly, telling me to sleep, but there’s the tiniest smile on your lips when you do so, and you whisper – just as quietly – that you love me too.

It is a warm, blessed feeling that carries me to sleep.


End file.
